


A Few Ways Lassiter Might Make the First Move

by AuntieClimactic



Category: Psych
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuntieClimactic/pseuds/AuntieClimactic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lassiter might do it because of an accident, to avoid prison, his imminent death, to save Shawn's life, a bad day, to shut O'Hara up, and / or revenge...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lassie Goes First

**Author's Note:**

> Written during Season One. Cross posted from my LiveJournal.

**1) It was an accident!**

It really was. Shawn had been holding a case file behind his back to a) use it for a prop in one of his ridiculous visions Lassiter knew he was faking even if he didn’t knowhow and b) to keep it out of Lassiter’s reach.

Shawn was shouting about negative energy corrupting his inner eye, and Lassiter was just plain shouting, trying to grab the files from Shawn’s hands. But Shawn was a quick little bastard. He could twist in ways that reminded Lassiter of his five-year-old niece, who could go boneless in the middle of a temper tantrum. Shawn whined like her too.

“I just need to hold it for five seconds!” (“Just five more miiinuutees!”)

“Give me the file, Spencer!” (“Listen to your father, young lady.” Lassiter didn’t shout at five-year-olds.)

“No! Guuuuus!” (“Mooooom!”)

“For the love of Christ.” Lassiter finally grabbed Shawn around the middle, pulled him tightly against him, and reached for the file with his free hand. Shawn attempted to slump bonelessly against him, but Lassiter can seen his niece perform this specific maneuver on his younger brother one too many times to fall for it. He quickly adjusted his grip, but he may have misjudged the distance because Shawn was taller that Kathy, and usually he aimed for the knees, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

Shawn froze as Lassiter’s hand clamped down on his thigh, high enough that the side of his hand brushed some of the more sensitive parts. Shawn had been trying to slump out of Lassiter’s grip so now his… let’s say “rear area”… was pressed tightly against some of Lassiter’s more interesting parts.

“Ummm?”

Shawn may have frozen, but Lassiter surged forward (lips grazing Shawn’s neck in the process) and snatched the case file from Shawn’s now loose grip.

“Ha!” Lassiter cried, stepping away. Shawn collapsed on the floor, staring up at Lassiter dumbly.

Lassiter frowned down at him, “What’s your problem, Spencer?”

“You touched me?” Shawn wasn’t sure he understood the situation.

Lassiter rolled his eyes, “Oh, please. No, I wasn’t making a move on your virtue, and no, you can’t catch gayness through casual social contact. Idiot.”

Lassiter walked away while Shawn continued to sit on the floor, grinning to himself. It really was an accident. So what if Shawn decided to take it to the next level?

 

  
 **2) Using the gun would have resulted in criminal charges.**

After Chief Vick left on maternity leave, Lassiter was temporally assigned to handing out the caseloads. At first Lassiter grinned so wide that O’Hara’s stepped back a few paces and averted her eyes. He controlled who investigated what, and, because he could control who investigated what, he could control which cases Spencer “consulted” on, which would be none. Zip. Zero. Nada.

But when Shawn arrived at the station the next day he came armed for war. If Lassiter refused to give him a case out of his own free will, well then, he’d annoy the detective until the man broke.

Today was day six. And Lassiter was cracking.

“Do you like taffy, Lassie-face? I think my favorite is this new peppermint flavor they just came out with. Of course banana is excellent too, but the peppermint is all new and exciting, like that case that you assigned to Buzz. You got to go with salt-water taffy though. Laughy-taffy is a pathetic mockery of the taffy spirit. But honestly, why ‘salt-water’ taffy? I don’t think they – Lassiter don’t bang you head on the desk like that. Every time you bang your head you lose ten brain cells.”

Lassiter groaned into his paperwork, Shawn patted the back of his head sympathetically.

“Spencer,” Lassiter’s voice was muffled slightly by the desk. “I can think of only two ways to shut you up right now. One of which does not result in criminal charges.”

“Does that way result in a case file dropping into my hands? Because that would result in super fantastic joy.”

Later, Lassiter blamed it the desperation for silence and a severe lack of sleep, but now – as his tongue thrust into Shawn’s wet mouth – he just went with it.

 

  
 **3) If you assume death will get you off the hook, remember Murphy’s Law.**

In the movies, the hero could get shot three times and still save the girl and the United States from terrorism. The movies were wrong, of course; getting shot hurt. Like a bitch.

Morphine was nice through. Morphine was brilliant. Lassiter was considering composing a poem about the virtues of morphine, but he suspected that was the morphine talking.

Therefore, when Shawn’s head popped into view above him, Lassiter smiled instead of blushing from humiliation. The last time Shawn’s head popped into view above him, Lassiter’s vision was fuzzy and blood was soaking into his favorite work shirt. Lassiter had then taken the only logical course at the time: pulled Shawn down by the neck and kissed him goodbye.

“You,” Shawn pointed down at Lassiter accusingly, “kissed me.”

“Hum.” Lassiter hummed noncommittally.

“It wasn’t even a good kiss,” Shawn continued. “There was little to no tongue, and your technique was faulty. And then right afterwards you went into cardiac arrest. If I were a judge at the Olympics, I wouldn’t even give it a five. Unless I was bribed and French.”

“Well, there was this bullet. In my gut.” Lassiter waved vaguely toward his stomach area. “I can try it again if you’d like.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the unhigh version of Lassiter was writing his resignation and planning to move to North Carolina, where he would sell clocks.

Shawn blinked for a few seconds before sighing and sitting down heavily in the seat next to Lassiter’s bed. He ran a hand through his hair, and got a look on his face Lassiter recognized. Great, they were going to have The Conversation. Starts with “I’m flattered,” and ends with, “…not in that way.” He thought death would get him out of these types of conversations, which was why he kissed Shawn in the first place. Life ruins everything.

“Look,” Lassiter started, turning his face toward the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I thought I was going to die, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. And I’m incredibly stoned right now, so my mouth is moving faster than my brain. It won’t happen again.”

“Which part?” Lassiter frowned at Shawn, not understanding. “I mean is the mouth moving faster than the brain part the thing that won’t happen again, or the kissing part? Because that was probably the most romantic part that ever happened to me.”

Lassiter was desperately confused, “Which part?”

Shawn laughed, and squeezed Lassiter’s knee.

“Oh Lassie-face, I’ll tell you when you’re not stoned out of your pretty little head.”

 

  
 **4) How to save a life?**

Mouth to mouth resuscitation usually didn’t count as making the first move, but, whenever Shawn teased Lassiter about it later, Lassiter turned bright red and stomped away. In Shawn’s book, that counted for something. Especially since he hadn’t needed CPR at the time.

 

**5) One of those days.**

Lassiter had shot people before. He was a cop; it came with the territory. He’d shot both men and women, black and white. But this was the first time he’d shot a boy. A boy with a semi-automatic pointed at a crowd, but a boy nonetheless.

After the official hearing, it was concluded that Lassiter acted in the only way possible, and saved a couple dozen lives in the process. They were even going to give him a fucking medal for it.

Lassiter planned to drive to the nearest bar and drink until he didn’t remember his own name, much less the dead look in Steven Parkers’ eyes, but instead he ended up knocking on an apartment door with no idea of how he got there.

Shawn answered with wet hair, bare feet, and a question in his eyes. Lassiter hands shook as they reached for Shawn, and they didn’t stop shaking even when his mouth was moving franticly against Shawn’s and the door was closed behind them.

Shawn kissed back at first, before gently pushing Lassiter away, “What -”

“Don’t,” Lassiter loosened Shawn’s belt buckle as he talked. “Please. Don’t. Just let me...” Lassiter shoved Shawn down onto the couch and kneeled down in front of him.

“I need to.” Lassiter said.

“Yeah, okay,” Shawn whispered and combed Lassiter’s hair with his fingers.

And with his hands gripping Shawn’s hips, and with Shawn arching into his mouth, Lassiter forgot.

 

**6) It was worth it just to see the looks on their faces.**

O’Hara had been on him all night. Talking about how it was a New Years tradition, and how it’s a special night and so on and so forth. He tried to subtly walk away, but that only resulted in O’Hara following him, which resulted in Shawn overhearing the conversation.

That resulted in Shawn chipping in about how it’s bad luck to break tradition, and how, in his line of work, doesn’t old Lassie need all the luck he can get.

The night went on, and O’Hara and Shawn just got more persistent, and Lassiter’s temper rose. When the countdown started O’Hara and Shawn where standing on either side of him, practically shouting over the chants of the rest of the police force.

At the same time the S.B.P.D. screamed, “Happy New Year!” Lassiter screamed, “All right!”

As horns and poppers went off, Lassiter grabbed Shawn by the front of his shirt and mashed their lips together. It barely lasted more than a few seconds. As the first chorus of Auld Lang Syne started up, Lassiter released Shawn.

“There! Are you happy? I kissed someone!”

Lassiter turned toward the cheese table, O’Hara and Shawn looked shell-shocked, Gus and Vick continued to ignore all of them, and no one else at the station even batted an eye.

 

**7) Revenge is best served cold, but lukewarm works.**

A week later, Lassiter was still paying for the hotel room after the whole stolen ring fiasco, and was still very bitter about it. Wisely, a certain someone had been avoiding the station since the incident. So when Lassiter spotted Spencer and his stupid sidekick outside on the way to his car, his first feeling was surprise. And then rage.

He started to move forward, but his training kicked into gear, pulling him to a halt and assessing the situation. Neither Spencer nor Guster had noticed him. All Spencer’s attention was focused on the cute blonde in front of him, and Guster was twitching like he had to be somewhere else in five minutes. The girl was smiling at Spencer coyly and tapping a pen between her teeth.

A thought occurred; Lassiter suppressed the frightening urge to giggle.

Lassiter waited carefully for the right moment, and made his move when the blonde started to write her number down, laughing at something Spencer said.

“Oh, Shawn!” Lassiter called.

Spencer turned automatically. The smile changed to fear, and finally twisted to confusion as Lassiter waved and walked over.

Spencer’s eyes widened comically similar to a deer in headlights when Lassiter threw his arm over his shoulder.

“Hi, darling. (To Spencer.) Excuse me (To the blonde). Listen, Shawn, I know I said I was clean last night but I just got back from the doctor.”

Spencer made the cutest whimper in the face of humiliation.

“The good news is that the rash will go away in a few days. Okay?” Lassiter patted Spencer on the cheek, and pretended to give the blonde a once over for the first time, “Oh, hello.”

“No. Emily! Don’t listen to his craziness! He’s crazy!” Spencer shouted, but it was too late. The blonde had a look of utter disgust on her face. Without a word, she turned and walked away.

There was silence for a moment until Guster burst into hysterical laughter, and collapsed on the ground. Spencer glared at Lassiter.

“You should’ve seen this coming, Psychic.” Lassiter said calmly. He turned back toward his car, but not before pinching Spencer – a bit harder than was necessary – on the butt.

Spencer’s high-pitched scream and Guster’s breathless gasps of joy followed Lassiter all the way home.


	2. Shawn's Second Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of three scenarios.

**1.2) Accident? I’ll show you accident!**

“Eiiiiaahhhh!”

In normal societies, when one hears a scream of that pitch, tone, and / or volume, one reacts in a certain way. One may a) pick one’s head up and scan the surrounding area in a concerned fashion, b) lock all the doors and windows while keeping a death-grip on the nearest blunt object, or c) ask the neighbors politely if it would trouble them terribly to close their windows when they perform the satanic mass. 

Detective Carlton Lassiter told his brother he would call him back, locked his expensive office supplies and favorite mug in his drawer, double-checked his gun’s safety, leaned back in his chair, and counted silently under his breath.

“ 3…2…1.”

Shawn Spencer tore around the corner, Chief Vick and O’Hara following closely on his heels. Right on time.

“I can see her now! She’s so close, but there’s a haze. Oh, the haze clouds my inner mind!” Spencer flailed, his body somehow managing to turn 360 degrees in mid-air. Lassiter would have been impressed if he weren’t used to Spencer’s daily disregard of the law of gravity.

“Do you see where she is, Mr. Spencer?” Vick asked. Lassiter noticed she was staying on arm’s length away, a lesson most of the Santa Barbara police force had learned by now.

“Is anyone with her?” O’Hara, ever faithful, held a pen and notebook at the ready.

“Yes!” Spencer cried. He twisted once again and continued his rampage toward Lassiter’s desk. Mentally preparing himself, Lassiter saved the file on his computer in case Spencer decided to bang his head against the keyboard again.

“Someone’s with her, but she’s not afraid.” Spencer collapsed on Lassiter’s desk. He clutched his head with one hand, groping the air blindly with the other.

“The Fenton case?” Lassiter ignored how close Spencer was to humping his desk in favor of questioning O’Hara. She nodded, but kept intense focus on the scene in front of her.

Jamie Fenton had disappeared without a trace three days ago without so much as a ransom note. The family was frantic, and no leads meant that Chief Vick felt the need to use the department’s wild card, which was current whimpering pornographically.

Lassiter looked down, “Could you not do that on my desk, Mr. Spencer.”

Spencer’s head snapped up, and his eyes focused, “Oh, Victor!”

“Oh no.” Lassiter had exactly three seconds to repent drawing attention to himself before Spencer threw himself into his lap. Warm body heat and bony limbs temporarily unbalanced Lassiter, and his hands steadied themselves on Spencer’s hips.

“Help?” Lassiter addressed Vick and O’Hara, who stood treasonously idly.

O’Hara appeared thoughtful, “Wasn’t there a Victor Nunn in the list of Jamie Fenton’s classmates who we questioned?”

Lassiter opened his mouth to say ‘that’s not what I meant, and you know it’ but Spencer spoke before him.

“Victor, baby, you make me so hot,” Spencer said before shoving his tongue as far down Lassiter’s throat as it would go.

Gagging, Lassiter shoved Spencer unceremoniously to the floor, and used the back of his hand to scrub viciously his mouth.

Spencer emerged from the spirit world, “Where… where am I?”

Vick acted as though her Head Psychic molesting her Head Detective was an everyday event (it was), “O’Hara, call up Mr. Nunn and see it he’d be willing to come down to the department.”

“Yes, Chief.” O’Hara happily scurried off.

“You’ve may have solved another case for us, Mr. Spencer,” Vick nodded her thanks and walked back to her office.

Once the office door closed behind the Chief, Lassiter kicked Spencer in the thigh.

“Jesus Christ, my mouth was open!”

A sly grin slowly formed on Spencer’s face, “Don’t worry, Lassy. Homosexuality can’t be transferred through saliva.”

Then, Spencer brushed off his pants, stood up, patted Lassiter on the cheek, and walked off whistling with his hands in his pockets.

In normal societies, a man would a) pretend the last three minutes hadn’t transpired, b) inquire as to whether the other man might be interested in meeting him for coffee next Wednesday, or c) inform the other man that the next time said man touched him, he would proceed to rip his hand off and beat said man to death with it.

Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department bared his teeth.

“Oh, it’s on.”

 

 

**3.2) Civilized Discussion is Overrated Anyways.**

Being shot hurt. Being shot in the gut hurt more. Recovering from a gunshot wound to the gut after the doctors have taken you off the morphine has been compared by many a poetic pen to the fifth ring of Hell. 

Lassiter would have agreed with this assessment whole heartedly had he not been in mind-numbing agony at the moment.

Later, though, Lassiter would reflect that pain taught a man about certain aspects of himself that may have gone unconsidered otherwise. For example, pain taught Lassiter that there were situations where he was not above begging.

“Please, please, please, give me one more pill. You can have anything you want, I don’t care, anything, just give me something.”

Spencer held the plastic medication bottle behind his back and further stepped away from Lassiter’s bedside

Lassiter swore, and turned away – wincing when the movement jarred his stitches.

“You know what you are?” Spencer asked, not even pausing when Lassiter fixed him with a stare that had frozen the most notorious criminals in their path. “You’re a pessimist. Here I am, at your beck and call, willing to perform any task, and all you can think about is the pain.”

“Well,” Lassiter said though his teeth. “There is quite a lot of it.”

“And I’m here,” Spencer paused meaningfully and leaned toward Lassiter, “to help you.”

“I should have stayed at the hospital,” Lassiter’s fingers clenched the sheets under him. “They had morphine there.”

Spencer sighed the sigh of a martyr condemned to teaching particularly stupid children.

“The hospital may have morphine, Carlton.” Spencer kneeled down beside the bed and placed his hands on Lassiter’s thighs. He waited until Lassiter looked up before continuing.

“But there are other ways to get rid of pain that the hospital can’t, for legal reasons, practice.”

“Oh?” Lassiter voice was strangely high. “I thought…”

“Remember that talk we were supposed to have about that pre-cardiac arrest kiss?” Spencer’s hands slid higher.

“The talk I wanted to have earlier when you were so adorably stoned? Well, we can have that talk now, or,” Spencer’s hands slipped under the sheets. Lassiter watched him intently, breathing slightly faster.

“Or, we can let endorphins do the talking.”

Lassiter nodded, unaware that his fingers had unclenched and now lay relaxed against the sheets.

 

 

**5.2) It’s a little late for that question, don’t you think?**

Carlton woke up naked. He felt a brief moment of confusion when he sat up and scanned the unfamiliar bedroom; then Shawn walked out of the bathroom, wearing only boxers, and the confusion skated smoothly into a full blown panic attack.

“I, uh,” Carlton wrapped a sheet around himself to cover his nudity before standing to search the carpet for his clothes.

“I’ll, just, uh.” Carlton felt the blood rushing to his face. If there was a God, He would help him find his underwear. So intent was he on avoiding glancing anywhere in the general direction of the bed or the man with whom he had shared it, Carlton failed to notice Shawn’s approach until cool hands settled on his arm.

Carlton turned and met Shawn’s eyes for the first time since falling asleep the night before.

Shawn grinned, “It’s the morning, Carlton, and I still respect you.”

 

 

**7.2) Mine is an evil laugh.**

“No, Shawn. I’m telling, as your friend, this is the worst idea you have ever had. Do you understand the severity of that statement?”

“Gus, I have been laying in wait for this moment. It’s perfect. Lassiter’s wearing his nicest suit, and his spine is all straight and diplomatic.”

Gus glanced around the corner. Lassiter was talking to an elderly woman in front of his desk. The way the two were standing, Gus could only see the back of the woman’s head, but Lassiter was indeed wearing his best suit and had his features schooled in a polite negotiation of fear and innocence.

“You understand he has a loaded gun on his hip? One that he’s been waiting to use on you for a very long time?”

“Nah, too many witness. This is my chance; I’m going in.”

“Shawn, no! Get back here!” Gus hissed, but to no avail.

Shawn walked around the corner and strode purposefully into the fray. Gus followed at a safe distance, if only so someone could collect the body afterwards; Lassiter didn’t see Shawn moving toward him until it was too late.

“Oh, darling, I’ve missed you so much!”

Gus had seen a good deal of expressions on Lassiter’s face - frustration, exasperation, rage, surprise, murderous intent, etcetera - but never had Gus witnessed such an expression look of pure horror on he saw on the man’s face as the one that blossomed now.

Lassiter raised his hands in front of him to futilely ward off the impending doom, “Spencer, no, you don’t -.”

“Come here, gorgeous!”

Shawn grabbed Lassiter’s face with both hands and kissed him. With tongue.

“That is messed up.” Gus watched as Lassiter arms spasmed wildly, blue eyes similiar to those of a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car.

Gus turned from the scene and got his first good look at the lady Lassiter had been speaking with. She had short white hair, and her blue eyes were sharp and intelligent. There was something disturbingly familiar about her. Something that made him want to drive the speed limit and double check his tax forms. Something…

Oh God.

Gus giggled.

Shawn finally separated from Lassiter with an obscene smacking sound, self-satisfaction written all over his face.

“Booker!” The woman growled.

Lassiter snapped to attention, “Yes, Mother?”

Gus choked back the hysterical laughter as the color rapidly rushed from Shawn’s face.

“I see you’ve started lying to family now.”

“No, it’s not -” Lassiter started.

“I can explain -” Shawn said at the same moment.

“Don’t interrupt me!” Two mouths snapped shut with an audible click.

“How dare you lie to me? Single? Not seeing anyone? I suppose you two just play racquetball together. Pssh!” Mrs. Lassiter made a sound reminiscent of a knife slashing through the air.

“And you,” Mrs. Lassiter pointed at Shawn with a slim finger. Shawn reacted by slowly raising his hands in the air and unsuccessfully attempting to hide behind Lassiter.

“You, young man, had better be at our house tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner,” Mrs. Lassiter cackled. Her cane thumped on the ground like a judge’s gavel falling.

“Yes, sir.” Shawn squeaked.

Mrs. Lassiter’s blue eyes narrowed and scrutinized Shawn as if examining architecture for cracks in foundation. Apparently satisfied, she “harrumphed” and turned to go. 

The three men stood in silence (two of them shell shocked, one of them fighting back tears of joy), watching the woman make her way toward the main entrance.

Opening the door, Mrs. Lassiter gave Shawn a parting glare, “And brush your hair! You look like a damned hooligan!”

Mrs. Lassiter waved before finally closing the door behind her, “See you tomorrow, Booker.”

“Bye, Mom.” Lassiter said mournfully, watching the retreating form. “Congratulations, Spencer, you just became my boyfriend.”

“I figured as much,” Shawn sighed and looked over at Gus, who was practically vibrating with the effort of keeping laughter at bay

“Oh, just say it, Gus.”

Gus shook his head negatively - this one was going in his pocket for a rainy day.


End file.
